


Champagne and Christmas Cake

by Esteliel



Series: Cookies [2]
Category: Les Misérables (Dallas 2014)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Christmas Party, Fluff, M/M, Office Sex, thigh worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 11:28:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5246633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>All in all, Valjean supposed, this was not bad, as far as office parties went. In fact, had he ever thought about attending the department's holiday party, he would have imagined it to go far worse. There were no handcuffs, no guns, and no one had shouted at him. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Champagne and Christmas Cake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Happy birthday vaincs! <3

They'd had a glass of champagne each, and a slice of the Christmas cake; they'd suffered through Gisquet's speech, which grew more obnoxious every year, or so Javert had warned him, and had bought tickets to a raffle where Javert managed to win an astonishingly ugly apron decorated with a giant, bearded Santa face.

All in all, Valjean supposed, this was not bad, as far as office parties went. In fact, had he ever thought about attending the department's holiday party, he would have imagined it to go far worse. There were no handcuffs, no guns, and no one had shouted at him. He still felt very out of place, but no one was in uniform, which made it easier. And of course everyone seemed too distracted by the fact that Javert had shown up with a boyfriend to look at that boyfriend and see him for who he was.

He'd told Javert that this wasn't a good idea. Not just because someone might get the idea to look into his past, but because there was also the fact that it took only one look at him to know him for who he was. And he'd suspected Javert had already gotten the talk from one or two of his colleagues, or would very soon. _Javert, how can you reconcile dating someone like that with your job?_ they'd say, meaning _someone who looks like he'll end up in prison_ , and Javert would certainly get angry, because that's who he was. But he'd also feel ashamed—both because not long ago, Javert had thought the same. But also because maybe he'd take another good look at Valjean then, and—

Valjean took a deep breath and forced himself to finish his cake. People were still standing around, sipping their champagne or eggnog and eating cake from paper napkins. It wouldn't take much longer, and then they could go home. And maybe everyone would be too struck by the fact that Javert had brought a date to question the fact that it was a man—a man who still looked like a well-dressed convict, Valjean thought, instinctively touching the tattoo at his neck with his fingers. Really, what had made him decide to walk right into the lion's den, prison tattoos and all? They'd take one look at him and know...

Javert leaned in, one arm coming around Valjean's waist. He smelled like champagne and the spice mix of the cake, and Valjean told himself that Javert certainly wasn't drunk from one glass alone even as he felt Javert's breath hot against his ear. 

“Come on! I want to show you something. Won't take more than a few minutes.”

Javert's voice was rough in all the right ways, but really, that was impossible, not here, Valjean thought. It was probably the champagne, or the corny carols. Now there was a first couple swaying together to White Christmas, and Valjean was suddenly glad for the chance to flee the awkwardness of it all.

He put down his glass and allowed Javert to pull him out the door of what usually had to be a meeting room, now decorated with a couple of garlands for the occasion. 

“I'll show you my office. I have a great view of the city,” Javert said as they passed another gaggle of people near the door. “That poinsettia Cosette gave me is still alive as well.”

One of the women they had passed laughed, and Valjean told himself that they were just talking, really, that's what people did at these events, and everyone had had the champagne. They were all laughing and talking. 

But Javert's voice had still been rough, he'd talked just a little too fast, and Valjean knew him well enough to know that he was embarrassed. Maybe not of being seen with Valjean then. Maybe just for dragging him out like this, so that they could kiss like teenagers in the hallway.

The thought was embarrassing, but also made him hold back sudden laughter of his own. Really, that was just too impossible. To think he'd end up like this, laughing and kissing Javert in the hallways of a police department!

When Javert stopped to open a door, he dragged Valjean inside so quickly that he failed to see what was written on the door. It was a dark office, and Javert didn't switch on the light, but the windows were large and the view was as he had promised: below them spread the city, lights shining in the darkness for as far as he could see.

“That's beautiful, Javert!” He laughed a little and shook his head, because now at last there was no one there to hear it. “I didn't think your view would be _that_ nice!”

“I didn't bring you here for that,” Javert murmured against his skin, his voice still rough. This time it was all too easy to figure out that it was the familiar, helpless need that made him sound breathless. Valjean found himself pushed against the wall, and then he was kissed—kissed, he, _here_ , in the same place where they probably still had all of his old files moldering in some forgotten drawer—

For a moment, he wondered whether Javert had his old files in his own drawer. He would, wouldn't he? Javert would, and he'd think he had them so well hidden...

Javert breathed a helpless sound into the kiss, and Valjean stopped thinking.

“Oh,” he sighed when their lips parted. He couldn't stop smiling. Slowly, he smoothed his hand down Javert's cheek. “This is very foolish, don't you think?”

Javert looked at him. Although it was too dark to really make out his expression, Valjean knew just how he'd look: slightly desperate, slightly surprised, as though he wasn't quite sure that this was really what he wanted—or as though he was as surprised as Valjean that this was really happening to him.

“I need to—I mean, can I touch you?” Javert stumbled over his own words, panting a little. Then his hands were on Valjean's thighs, kneading gently through the fabric of his trousers. Apprehensive and surprised, Valjean shivered, somehow strangely touched that even here, even in this of all places, Javert wanted him like this.

He pushed his hands into Javert's hair to draw him into another kiss, still tasting the champagne on his lips as Javert's hands went to his fly. Suddenly, his trousers were around his knees. Javert's fingers pressed into muscle, and Javert was groaning nonsense things against his lips yet again even as Valjean realized with embarrassment that he was growing hard.

Javert's hands curved around his thighs. Javert's tongue was in his mouth, and when Javert's fingers strayed upwards, Valjean made a muffled sound of half arousal, half embarrassment. His dick felt full and heavy and ached, and they were in Javert's office, and still he almost hoped that Javert would push down his underwear too...

“They'll come looking for you,” he gasped when Javert returned to rubbing up and down his thighs. His thumbs pressing against the inside so that Valjean's legs spread for him. Valjean couldn't bear to look down, but then Javert's hand released him to cup and squeeze him through his underwear instead, and Valjean had to bite his lip to stay quiet.

“They won't look in Gisquet's office.” Javert's voice was feverish. His thumb rubbed along the length of Valjean's cock while his other hand rubbed his thigh again, fingers splayed in appreciation, until Valjean thought he was melting, coming undone with the fizzing of the champagne in his belly and the heat of Javert's hand loving him, wanting him. The gentle, terrible pressure of Javert's thumb sliding up and down his cock overwhelmed him, as though his body had been made to fit into Javert's hands, as though he'd been made to be loved in such a way: with broad hands and desperate kisses and disbelief in Javert's eyes. And perhaps that was true; perhaps he was as surprised as Valjean by how good it all was, by how hot Valjean's skin grew at his touch, and how Valjean's cock stretched in his briefs at his urging.

“I can't go back out like this!” Valjean said, and Javert laughed against his lips, wild and a little desperate, and agreed, “No, no, you can't.” 

Suddenly Javert was on his knees. Valjean's underwear was pushed to the side just enough that Javert could draw the head of his dick into his mouth. He sucked on it while his hands returned to stroke his thighs, grasping and kneading as though Valjean really was as soft and malleable as he felt in Javert's hands: something warm and lovable instead of the harsh print on old files. Then everything ended, and he felt as though he was melting into the wall as he came undone at Javert's touch, gathered and held upright by strong hands while Javert's mouth drew all pleasure out of him, pulse after pulse of heat that made his thighs spasm and his knees tremble.

Long moments later, he found himself slumped against the wall, his heartbeat slowing while he raised his eyes to the windows again. The lights of the city were still twinkling below. The sounds of the party were so muted that Valjean couldn't make out the song that was playing from the fragments of melody drifting their way. Javert's beard was rough against his thigh, and then Javert's mouth was hot and soft where the beard had scratched. 

With a sigh, Valjean pushed his hands into Javert's hair, stroking him gently while Javert pressed sloppy kisses to the muscles of his trembling legs, sucking with breathy moans while he panted against his skin. Valjean could see the working of his arm in the gloom of the office. He wanted to laugh. He thought again of how Javert had said that this was Gisquet's room. 

They shouldn't. Or may, he should offer Javert—he could not say what. He was all soft and exhausted, like a candle that had been lighted and then snuffed out. He could barely keep himself upright. And Javert's mouth was licking at him, sucking warm marks on his thighs, biting his way up and kissing his way back down while his hand continued to move, the rhythm ragged, then faltering. Then Javert's beard chafed at him again while Javert groaned, overcome at last.

Gently, Valjean's fingers trailed through Javert's hair. It was short enough that he hoped no one would notice that it did no look quite as smooth anymore. Or perhaps they would think they had ducked into the hallway to kiss like teenagers. The thought made him laugh a little. Here he was, in the office of Gisquet himself, with no worry but that someone would realize that he'd sneaked away from a party to kiss his boyfriend...

“I would have helped,” he said when Javert finally got up again. He was silenced by another kiss. This one was slow, and Valjean exhaled quietly against Javert's lips.

Maybe they'd stay for another glass of champagne, he thought, or another slice of cake. But then they'd leave. They'd leave together, and maybe someone would watch them, and there'd be whispering and laughter—but it would be meant for Javert. It would be because of Javert's tousled hair instead of Valjean's tattoo, or because of the way Javert kept staring at him with that dazed hunger, as though he wasn't aware what everyone else saw who looked at him—what Javert too had once seen.

Javert cleaned off his hand with a tissue. “You've helped enough,” he muttered, and even in the dark office Valjean could make out the way his face heated. “You've... You know. Thanks for letting me touch you.”

Again Valjean had to laugh, he just couldn't help it. Sometimes he thought he'd never understand Javert. Sometimes Javert just made the joy bubble out of him, fizzy like the champagne. 

“In Gisquet's office too! They will all think I corrupted you!” Valjean pulled up his trousers. His thighs were still tingling a little, sensitive from the rasp of Javert's beard and the warmth of his hands.

Javert grimaced as he looked at the tissue in his hand. Then—slowly, carefully, as though he were trying not to leave behind evidence at a scene of crime—he dropped the tissue into a trashcan half-hidden beneath Gisquet's desk.

“They won't ever know. And someone will come by to clean,” he said, buttoning up his own trousers. Valjean watched him from where he was still leaning against the wall. In the gloom, Javert was little more than a tall shadow against the backdrop of the city's lights beyond. When Javert opened the door again, fragments of another carol drifted towards them, and, suddenly emboldened, Valjean stepped forward and slipped his arm around his waist. 

He kissed him again, right there in the office of Gisquet, and then reached up to smooth his hair back into place as best as he could.

“You'll have to let me wear your apron,” he said, keeping his voice deliberately casual. “I think I'll bake more cookies this weekend.”

Javert was working on Saturday. He felt a little breathless just to contemplate the thought. To plan for such a thing. But when they stepped outside into the brightly lit corridor again, Javert looked dazed and happy, and Valjean thought that it would be quite ridiculous indeed to wear that apron, and nothing else. And he probably wouldn't do it. But still, thinking of it made him breathless and excited, and the holidays had never felt like this before. So much potential for so many things. And all of them good.


End file.
